Walk Away
by gostlcards
Summary: Tag to 5x22. Dean's trying to be happy. He really is. Spoilers for the finale. Rating for language.


So, like all the others in the Supernatural Fandom, I'm going to be LIVING off of fanfic these next few months. Figure I should throw my stuff out there too...share the wealth you know :D So here you go...my catharsis lol

I am working from the POV that Ben is really Dean's son. It's not super evident in this story until near the end, but i wanted to give warning in case any of you are super opposed to that theory and don't want to have any of it. :D

Disclaimer: That bitch Kripke owns everything. Bastard :D

(For the record, I LOVED the finale. The only thing I wasn't all about was how they brought Cas and Bobby back. While it broke my heart to see them die, I feel it almost cheapened it by bringing them back. But other than that...A+ Kripke. Way to go you assbutt. :D)

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* * *

__"With so many people to love in my life,_  
_Why do i worry about one, _  
_But you put the happy in my ness,_  
_You put the good times in to my fun..."  
-Ben Harper "Walk Away"_

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She's cutting carrots when he enters the kitchen, his face blank. He sighs and throws his coat on a hanger in the kitchen, over the leather jacket that has remained untouched for months and then throws his keys on the counter. He opens the cabinet behind her and she closes her eyes. She knows he's going for the whiskey.

He sits at the table, falling into the chair with a sigh and sips slowly, pursing his lips together as the drink warms his throat. She clears her own. "Long day at the shop?"

He grunts in response. "Uh, yeah, kinda. Just...one of those days."

He seems to have those days more often than not. She _thought_ it'd get better. She thought that, as time went on, he would heal and mourn his brother in a healthy way. Not from the bottom of a bottle. But it's been 8 months, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better.

"You know," She begins hesitantly. "You once told me that here, with me and Ben? That that was how you pictured yourself happy."

He is silent in response, and she stops slicing the vegetables, to wait.

"I am happy." He replies finally,his voice was gravelly, and quiet, but he won't look at her. Instead, he trains his gaze on the glass in front of him, picking it up and swishing it around as if he is going to sip at it, but then doesn't. He places it back on the table. "I am."

She bites her lip, wondering. She should probably let this be, but on the other hand she can't just let it rest. She was letting him stay here, and they were, for all intents and purposes, together. But even when they laid together, and he seemed to relax just a little, when he seemed less depressed, he was always still too far for her to reach.

She steps away from the counter and walks to the table, sitting down next to him. His eyes are still trained on the glass in front of him, so she picks it up and puts it on the other side, grasping his hand where it just sat. "And who are you trying to convince? Me? or yourself?"

He finally looks at her and she sees with a pang that there are tears filming his eyes. There always seems to be something there, an indication that something really bad happened before he showed up on her doorstep back in May, something he can't tell her. Something he's too afraid too. And the fact that he's told her so much other stuff-changelings, and werewolves and vampires too? What could be worse than that? But she realizes, that she's afraid to know too, so she bites her lip once more. She squeezes his hand. "Okay." She whispers. So they're going to do this. They're going to pretend.

She grabs the glass and slides it back to his hands and he grasps it like a drowning man taking a life preserver. She rises and walks back to the vegetables, picking up the knife, and watches his eyes close for a few moments as he drinks again.

"I'm gonna go get some air." He says softly, still not looking at her. She smiles though, all the same.

"Okay." She responds brightly, forced. "But dinner will be ready in 15, so don't be long."

He forces a smile now, and she appreciates the gesture because she can see how hard he's trying. "Will do." And he leaves.

She sighs. Long days at the shop seem to come in groups, some strung together by the week. But then there's a lull and he's better, almost normal.

She wonders when that will be again.

* * *

He gets outside and grips the glass as tight as he can to keep from throwing it on the ground.

_Son of a Bitch,_ he growls inwardly, resting back against the front of the home. He closes his eyes and stretches his head back, face upward at the sky.

_I hate you, he thinks. I hate you for giving me this life. I hate you for taking my mom. For taking my dad._

**_For taking Sam._**

The thought he so rarely allows himself to think-yet can't ever really erase-enters his mind and he swallows a sip of whiskey to calm him down. This isn't fair to Lisa, really. Or Ben. Because he's trying, he really is, to live this apple pie, American dream kind of shit and he sometimes comes close to succeeding for a day or so but then, something will happen. Something to remind him, of his brother, of his life and his past and it all goes to pot.

He needs to stop this. He needs to stop dwelling on what has happened, and try and get through to what can. He is living a normal life right now, has the opportunity to start over.

He just doesn't want to.

It's all that guys fault from the other day though. When he pulled up in that pristine, classic car, Dean knew he had to have all sorts of money, and when he got out of his car after pulling up to the garage, he had noticed the double take the man had given to the Impala. He scowled softly, but kept working. The man sauntered up.

"Tune up?" Dean offered, wringing his hands with a cloth. The man nodded, looking again back at Dean's car.

"Yessir. Say," He turned halfway. "That '67 Chevy...that belong to one of you boys here?"

Dean straightened up, and faced him. "Yeah, actually. Mine. Rebuilt her myself." Mostly true. The man nodded, looking impressed.

"Well, I'd say you've done a hell of a job." He paused. "How much would you want for it?"

Dean's face screwed in confusion. "What? It's not for sale."

The man's eyebrows raised. "Me and my boy were driving by yesterday...he's gonna be 16 soon, and he has a thing for old cars. Told him i'd get him anything he wanted, any brand new sports car, anything---"

"Well, thats mighty fatherly of you." Dean bit out. He could see where this was going. The man scowled at him.

"What he wants, is that car. Now, everyone has a price, son..."

"It's not. For sale." Dean clenched his fists, willing himself not too strike the man. He seemed like the type that was used to getting what he wanted, how he wanted it, and when he didn't, he could get sour. Dean didn't care.

The man came back over the next few days, every day, trying to convince him to sell it, the visits becoming more like a game to him, to see if he could get Dean to agree. And each time, Dean told him to go fuck himself. He didn't quite like that, and complained to Dean's supervisor.

The supervisor had looked Dean up and down once, seeing his distress, and squared off against the customer. He didn't really know Dean; Dean kept to himself, quiet and withdrawn, but he did very good work and if he had learned anything about Dean personally, it was that when the man said yes or no, he meant it. He wasn't giving up that car; and he shouldn't have to.

"Thank you." Dean whispered after the rich man left. "I appreciate you, uh...having my back."

His supervisor waved it off. "No problem man. Just get back to your work."

He didn't ask. He didn't press, and Dean appreciated it. But it didn't make work any easier, and with each quiet, passing minute, he'd glance at the car. And he'd think of Sam. And with every passing minute, that need for whiskey grew and grew.

He swears under his breath now, downing the last bit with a soft hiss from the kick and turns to go back inside. When he does, he sees Ben setting the table for dinner, and he receives a big grin and decides it's time to _really_ try. He pushes his sorrow away, and smiles, and greets the boy jovially. He sees Lisa's smile then, half grateful for his effort, and he feels that, with some real effort, he can get there.

During dinner, he sees a street light outside flicker, then go out. He cranes his neck around the boy sitting across from him, straining his eyes to focus as well honed instinct kicks in but then he pushes it away. He promised, after all. He thinks he sees something shift in the dim light, but shakes his head, and when he looks back, nothing is there. He pushes away the oncoming wave of sorrow.

It wasn't Sam. And it never would be Sam. And the sooner he realized and accepted that fact, the better off he would be.

* * *

Years pass. Every now and then, he swears he sees him. Leaning on that birch out back, or across the street from the shop. But every time, he does the double take (he can't help it), and when he looks back, the image is gone and there is short, sharp pain that takes his breath away for but a moment. But he shakes his head, and he moves on. He goes to Ben's baseball games, he barbecues for the 4th and he wants, truly wants, to marry Lisa. He's just saving up.

It's later that night though, that things come unhinged for longer than a moment. Ben is 15 now, and getting ready to learn to drive but, as Dean lectures him, he should know how to treat a car. So he makes the boy get up early on a Saturday (because baseball is in the afternoon, and no one interrupts that) and jacks the Impala up before opening the hood of the car and preparing for the oil change.

It starts with something he says as he's explaining something to the kid about the engine. Some smart ass, stupid remark that really shows his age, and Ben gets this withering look on his face, rolling his eyes like kids do when their parent has just said something utterly ridiculous to them. A look he saw many times on someone else's face.

The wrench clatters to the pavement, and the look on Ben's face changes from the bitch face to worry, his brow furrowing and it just makes it worse. Ben knows a little bit about his uncle but has always avoided asking questions about him, but he sees the familiar look on Dean's face and understands that something has made him think of Sam. He opens his mouth to ask a question, and just like that, Dean's face returns to normal and he shakes his head.

"Let's just get this finished."

Later at night, Lisa is teasing her son. He's grown almost 6 inches in mere months, and he's only 15 and has much more time to grow. "Turning into a regular Sasquatch..."

"Mom..." He rolls his eyes, tone exasperated and she laughs at him. Neither of them notice Dean's white knuckled grip on the counter in front of him. She doesn't even realize she's said something wrong until she turns and Dean is gone, papers on the fridge fluttering behind him as the door closes quickly and quietly.

"He's been weird all day. I think something made him think of Sam." Ben whispers, guilt evident.

She bites her lip, patting her sons hair in comfort. Of course something made him think of Sam. Something always does.

* * *

He drives for awhile, slowing only to sip from the flask he keeps in the glove compartment of his car. He'd slowed the drinking down for awhile, really trying to cut back for Lisa and Ben's sake. He parks the car in a field finally, some 20 minutes down the road. It's clear and empty, and he hasn't done this in years. Not since his brother was by his side, but he feels like Sam could be here with him now, and it's better than he's felt in all this time pretending.

"I've tried," He whispers as he sits on the hood of the car, staring up at the stars. "I really, really have. I do everything you wanted me to do. But I can't be happy. I won't be." He shakes his head, and because no one is around, allows the tears in his eyes to creep up. "We did so much for other people. And I'm sorry, I get it, life's not fair. But shouldn't we get something out of this? After everything..." He trails off, shaking his head as tears fall from the corners of his eyes and he realizes this is good for him. That he needs to feel this from time to time because it keeps Sam real. It keeps him alive in the only way he knows how.

The wind moves the trees and he glances to the side. He thinks he sees movement, so he focuses but whatever it was, it's already gone. He leans back against the windshield, content to be alone right now, unable to know that in these four years, he never has been.

He gets home later, and there's only one light on. Lisa's in the living room, reading by the soft light, and she looks up when he walks in. Sadness on her face, she closes her book. "Something came for you while you were gone."

His face wrinkles in confusion; it's almost 2 in the morning, and postal trucks obviously don't deliver that later. She continues. "Someone dropped it off, and they asked me...if you were happy."

He swallows. "And what'd you tell them?"

"The truth." She sighs. "We love having you here Dean. We love you. And I know," She hurries along, because he's opened his mouth to say something but she wants to beat him to it. "I know you love us, I do. There's just...something in the way. Always has been." And she holds out the wrapped up newspaper. His heart skips, and she places a hand on his arm and squeezes.

She leaves to bed, and he sits up for awhile, debating on opening the package. He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's something from before. He can put it away, in a drawer in the kitchen and forget about it. He can embrace this, and keep his promise.

Dean was never really good at doing what other people told him to though. And this promise hasn't been working out. And he just can't keep pretending anymore; not for himself, and not for Lisa and Ben. They deserve better. So maybe this will make him better.

He picks at the packaging and it falls open; a trinket on a leather string falls to the ground.

* * *

He doesn't realize how he got outside so fast, but his heart is racing and he is clutching the object tightly as he standing in the middle of the empty street, eyes darting around. Only two people were with him that night. He threw it away. So maybe it's Cas. And he's still hopeful, because Cas is a friend and maybe Cas can help...

"I figured you might need it."

The voice is soft, and hesitant, and he spins so quickly he wonders if pulls something, but he doesn't care. He sees him now, standing 50 feet from him, leaning on the birch. He blinks once...twice. He shakes his head. He pinches himself. The image doesn't fade. He starts toward him slowly, slumbering instinct awakening in his mind. He doesn't have holy water, but he keeps a few picks and small knives on him at all times and he sticks his hand inside his jacket to fumble for the silver penknife. The thing looking at him-because it's not Sam, Sam's _dead_, and has been for 4 years-smiles at him.

"Get on with it then." He says, offering an arm and Dean can see the pain in his eyes. Dean wastes no time dragging the knife across his skin, a small line of blood appearing.

Nothing.

He doesn't have holy water, but he realizes he doesn't care. He didn't really care about the knife either, and before he realizes it, he has his arms around him.

He's quiet for a few moments before he starts speaking, his arms tight, both clinging to the other as if they may disappear if they let go. "I tried." He starts, his tone insistent. "I really have, I have tried."

"I know." Sam replies. "I've been watching."

Everything screeches to a dead halt and suddenly Dean is pissed. Like, beyond pissed and he pulls back and he realizes all the hallucinations, the moments he thought he saw him...all of those times were real.

"What are you?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm me...I think. I mean, I'm not a ghost. I just...one moment I was down there, the next I was here." He swallowed, his face pained. "I wanted you to be happy, so I stayed away."

Dean fights the urge to deck him right there. "You son of a bitch. You let me think you were rotting down there..."

Sam chuckles dryly. "Oh believe me. I had my time." An unrecognizable look passes on his face, but Dean understands, and the guilt wells inside his gut. "I just...I don't know. I've been hanging in the area though. Been hunting." He smiles softly. "Trying to keep you safe."

Dean snorts. "Horseshit; what the hell, Sam?"

He hears his brother's name fall from his lips for the first time in years, and suddenly, it doesn't matter. His shoulders fall; there'll be time for yelling at him later. Sam seems to notice because he moves toward him. Dean backs away. "Look. Uh. I've built a life here. I love them," He motions toward the house, keeping an eye on his brother. "But I never thought I'd get to talk to you again. Or see you..." He shakes his head, tears suddenly forming, the shock seeming to wear off and suddenly, he wants to laugh, cry and punch his brother right in the face. He'll save it for another day though. Right now, he smiles softly, almost sadly and shrugs. "You want to come in for a beer?"

Sam recognizes a peace offering when he sees one, and after years of watching Dean, and feeling guilty and sad, folds. He smiles back. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great."

Dean begins to walk toward the house, looking back every few seconds to make sure Sam's still behind him. He is. And from now on, he always will be.

* * *

AWWWW FLUFF. Kind of. I know, this probably won't happen. Hopefully it wasn't super anti-climactic, but i've never been one to really write them as super weepy, cause they're really not.. Hope you enjoyed. Leave me love (or hate, I suppose lol)


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